


Double-Kick & Tie

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Chuckles - Freeform, Episode: s03e01 Renovationklok, M/M, kloktober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27213400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: A collection of short stories about Pickles and Charles having STRONG FEELINGS.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Double-Kick & Tie

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 26 prompt, "Happy ending or sacrifice." Both? Both.

The moment Pickles saw Charles step into the room, back from the dead to solve all their contract renegotiation problems, he could’ve died happy right then and there. Except dying wasn’t the point, because if he died now then Charles wouldn’t be waiting there for him. Because he was _here_. 

He’d taken a lot of shit before starting the concert, so it took a long moment of staring for his brain to work up the momentum and reach that conclusion. 

His bandmates, who didn’t know, didn’t get it—except for Nathan, who’d looked so relieved that he didn’t have to play manager for them anymore that he might’ve levitated with sudden lightness of a burden lifted—practically had to drag him back onstage. Once he was there, though, he got back into it. Poured every ounce of his own wild joy and the last leftovers of grief into furious rhythms. Overall, it was one of his best live performances ever. 

As soon as the concert was over, he ducked away from the standard green room party of groupie sluts and booked it in the direction the hoods pointed him, towards Charles. Again, because of all the shit he was on, he had to keep asking because he kept getting lost. 

He found the man at last, going over the new contract in a makeshift office that was nothing like the usual grand digs he knew Charles liked. Pickles didn’t even wait for the man to acknowledge the open and close of the door, just latched on and pressed his face to Charles’ still leather-clad back before his stupid eyes could well over. “Fuck, Charlie, it’s so fucking good to see you again, holy fuckin’ _shit_.”

Charles straightened from where he’d been leaning over the contract and rested a hand over the two Pickles had clasped over his chest. “Yes,” he said simply. 

“Fuck. Where the fuck have you _been_ , dood?” Pickles was losing the battle with his eyes. Tears were starting to leak down his cheeks, though he did his best to rub them out on the strange jacket. “We needed you! I. . . . I needed you. Where did you go?”

“It’s, ah, complicated.”

The drummer stifled a humorless laugh. “So complicated you couldn’t send a ‘hey I’m not dead’ postcard?”

“Yes.” Charles pried his grip loose just enough to turn in his arms. “Pickles, I didn’t have a choice. I needed everyone to think I was dead, so our enemies wouldn’t be on the lookout while I gathered more information.”

Pickles blinked at him, vision wavering from all the stupid crying. He felt like he was fucking drowning—in tears, in relief, in indignation, he couldn’t decide which and it was fucking frustrating. “But you could’a, you could’a told _me,_ Charlie. Come on, I can keep a secret, right?”

Charles raised an eyebrow. 

“. . . Okay, fine, I’m not so great at that.” He dropped his head and rested it on the other man’s shoulder, pressing his face against Charles’ neck and taking a deep, shaky breath through his nose. The leather was new, but otherwise it smelled like Charles—smelled like his skin and the soap he liked to use and the cigars he sometimes indulged in, and the specific brandy he drank whenever he needed to unwind while still under a deadline. “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m crying like a fuckin’ girl, man. It’s just so good to see ya again, y’know? Though I never would again. . . .”

Charles put both arms hesitantly around him—he’d never been too good at the showing physical affection stuff, but he’d always tried his best, like he was trying now. “I know, Pickles,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He meant it, Pickles could tell. They’d been together long enough that he knew the difference between Charles telling him what he wanted to hear and Charles being genuinely honest. 

“You shoulda told me anyway,” Pickles sniffled into his collar. 

“In a perfect world,” Charles replied, giving him an awkward squeeze. 

Pickles snorted and pulled away a bit to wipe at his eyes and—ugh—runny nose. “Yeah, fuckin’ sign me up as soon as you find one’a those, ya dooshbag—”

Charles kissed him. It was hard and messy and desperate, and full of all the things they never, ever said to each other because they weren’t so great at emotional availability and communication, between all the work and all the drugs . . . but those unspoken words were always _there_.

Pickles kissed back just as fiercely, arms tightening again, and did a little hop and wrapped his legs around him too. Clinging like a limpet the way he knew Charles found ridiculous and hot at the same time, because they both missed each other and, fuck, they _deserved_ this after the past nine months.

They’d both made their sacrifices and swallowed the pain and kept on going, Charles doing whatever he’d been up to and Pickles still on the drums and the drugs; kept going because Dethklok was bigger than both of them. Maybe someday they’d find that perfect world where all the sacrifices paid off and they got the happy ending they’d fucking earned. 

Until then, at least they had each other again.


End file.
